


Crossroads

by kellyinawheeliebin



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Matt Mercer as Death, critical role - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 14:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellyinawheeliebin/pseuds/kellyinawheeliebin
Summary: Long since he has stopped screaming and cursing his lot. Now he simply clutches the instruments of his profession and bears the pain, the suffering of his charges.---An assignment I wrote where Matt is an agent of death in a kind of pocket dimension. Mildly inspired by the character of Death in The Book Thief, among other things.





	Crossroads

At a crossroads lies an inn.

To the east lies an immense mountain range, its snow-capped peaks shrouded in clouds that the gossip claims hide dragon lairs. To the west span a vast grass-covered plain that seems to go on forever, a dark tower looming on the horizon.

The inn is a dark little building, so inconsequential compared to the lands either side. It seems to shrink as one approaches the simple sign that hangs from the eaves that reads: ‘The Crossroads Inn.” Its façade is just as simple, the only features of note being the massive, round windows that give the illusion of two eyes watching the road and its travellers.

Inside, behind the bar stands a man, as unassuming as his establishment. Chestnut hair frames a face that almost seems to shift as one speaks with him, both as full and unblemished as a young man, and as hallowed and worn as an elder. His hands are constantly shifting out of sight below the bar.

The door swings open and he watches with weary eyes as a new group of adventurers enter his domain. His hand reaches into a pouch at his waist, drawing a handful of dice. He lets them fall one by one with a flourish as each person steps over the threshold.

A towering goliath of a man, tattooed and scarred in equal measure, a tiny woman with silver-hair perched on his shoulder. The woman waves at the Innkeeper as they enter, and he raises a hand in response as the dice fall from the other, clattering softly against the wood.

_Tnk. Tnk._

A squat man dressed in garish purple robes gesturing wildly towards his companions: a pale man with hair as white as snow and a woman with curly red hair. They don’t notice him; too enthralled with the story being told.

_Tnk. Tnk. Tnk._

He waits for a moment, and when no more enter, he turns his attention to the dice scattered across the counter. He breathes a sigh of relief at the cluster of bone white before sweeping them back into their pouch.

“Hello there.”

If he were an average man, he would have started. Instead, he looks up slowly to meet the gaze of a woman leaning against the counter. She’s beautiful; dark eyes and long lashes, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder just so, teal feathers woven into the thick braid. A smile quirks at her lips and she twists a lock of hair around her index finger.

“How much for the night?” she asks, her voice sultry as she looks him up and down.

“Five silver per room,” he says, and her smile grows brittle.

“How about we call it three each?” She leans her elbows on the bar, props her chin on her hands and flutters her eyelashes at him. A man with the same dark hair as her sidles up and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“How about we leave it at five?” the man says to her, and shoots him a withering glare that she ignores as he turns his attention to the Innkeeper, grinning. “Sorry about my sister, she can’t help herself.”

There’s the sound of glass shattering and they look towards the larger group, where the goliath is holding the broken-off handle of a tankard.

“Sorry!” he shouts, and the silver-haired woman pats his shoulder. The two call back to the group, and the Innkeeper takes the moment to palm two dice. They turn their gaze back to the conversation at hand, and shrug apologetically at him.

_Tnk. Tnk._

Their shoulders tense at the sound. It’s subtle, but little escapes the Innkeeper, and he watches their brown eyes grow sharp as they watch him. He glances down at the dice and winces.

The face of one is as black as the abyss. The other is balanced perfectly in the grain of the wood, neither black nor white. He cocks his head to the side and says nothing even as the woman clears her throat impatiently.

“Three per room,” he says finally, and looks up to see the woman turn to her brother, beaming. She places nine pieces of silver on the counter and he hands her three sets of keys.

“Thank you.” She winks at him, and brother rolls his eyes as they head to the table where the larger group has settled.

He doesn’t watch them go. Instead, he picks up the cocked die and rolls it between his fingers, rubs his fingers against the imperfections in the wooden counter. “Feeling indecisive today, are you?” he murmurs and stares at it for a moment longer before setting it down beside the black die.

The sunrises comes, and the Innkeeper hasn’t moved from behind the bar. He watches the group file out the door, holds up a hand as the small woman waves goodbye. Through the large windows, he watches them take the path to the west, and when they are long gone, turns his gaze to the dice and waits.

And waits.

There is no bracing for the pain that fills his chest as the breath is drawn from his lungs. The dice don’t leave his sight even as he doubles over, clutching at his throat. The pain doesn’t end, and for the first time in generations, fear floods his veins. Will he die today, after so many years of pain?

It feels like hours as he stands there, suffocating before the weight is suddenly lifted, and he takes a heaving breath. He fumbles for the black die and clenches his fist around it, murmuring a prayer for the dead even as the pain in his chest lingers.

* * *

The sun has set by the time they return. He watches them approach, counts them as they walk past the windows and towards the inn, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven-_

_Seven?_

The door swings open and they don’t look at him as they enter. They are silent as they find a table, and he watches as they huddle around the dark-haired woman, her skin pale as she wraps her arms around herself. Her brother is at her side, holding her hand tightly. His skin is even paler than hers, unnaturally so, and the Innkeeper glances at his dice as a sense of understanding creeps over him.

He sees that particular group more than once, and each time a die comes up black and they returned clustered around someone protectively. Each time, the woman pushes him nine silver pieces with a wink and a smile, and each time they return, ashen and shaking, he pushes them back. It's their little twisted routine, and she never questions the way his dice clatter against the wood or how he seems to understand what has happened.

The second time they return, it is the pale man, and a piercing pain shoots through his chest and lingers for hours afterwards.

The third time it is the purple-clad man, and his chest feels as though it has been torn open. This too lasts for hours before it fades.

He wishes they would stop coming.

By the fourth time, counting them as they enter feels like a formality.

_Onetwothree_ , their tear-stained faces blur together. _Fourfivesix-_

Six.

The dark-haired woman approaches the bar as always, stares past him with glassy eyes. He glances past her, and her brother is nowhere to be seen. She opens her mouth as she holds out a handful of silver, and the tears spill over as she tries to speak. He says nothing, simply shakes his head and sets gold pieces on the counter in front of her. She presses her lips together and swallows hard before taking the pieces and nodding at him. He watches as she tucks the coins away and heads back to the arms of her group.

They leave in the morning and he does not see them again.

Time passes. Travellers come and go. The dice clatter against the wood as each enter, and some return. Some do not.

The inn is full, and another large group finds themselves at a table, drunk and cheerful. Distracted by their antics, he doesn’t see the man the approaches him.

“Strange dice you have there,” he says, and the Innkeeper is by no means an average man, but he is taken aback by the strange man before him. His skin is bright purple, and horns curl out from his temples. He grins with pointed teeth as he meets his crimson eyes. “How many sides is that?” the strange man asks, leaning over the bar to peer at his dice. With one smooth motion the Innkeeper sweeps them back into the pouch at his belt, taking a moment to palm one. “Alright never mind then.” He leans back and stares at the Innkeeper before him before reaching into his garish robe and drawing a set of cards. He spreads them across the bar and motions towards them. “Care to hear your fortune?"

The Innkeeper sighs softly and pretends to consider before drawing a card and silently handing it to the man. He glances at the card and his grin widens even further as he turns the card to face him.

“Fortune favours you my friend,” he says, and taps the sun emblazoned across it. The Innkeeper rolls the dice with a flourish, and another sigh leaves him as it clatters against the wood.

The purple man leans over the bar at the sound, and peers at the die. "Did I win?” he asks, looking at him expectantly.

The innkeeper pushes the cards back towards him. "May you find peace," he says, and the purple man blinks at him, then the cards, then the die.

"Thank you," he says, solemn even as he cocks his head in confusion, his grin fading.

He wonders if he understands.

The man opens his mouth to speak once more, but a voice cuts across the inn.

"Hey Molly, would you put the fucking cards away and get us some drinks already?" a woman in blue robes shouts, leaning back in her chair.

The purple man bares his sharp teeth in a grin, his cheer returning once more as he tucks the cards back into his coat and tosses several gold pieces onto the counter. "You heard the lady. Seven of your cheapest and three rooms if you will!"

His group leaves in the morning, and they too head to the west.

* * *

A sharp pain pierces his chest, _twists_ and he gasps, and the pain is gone. It does not linger. He clenches his fist, and he lets the dice fall from his grasp.

* * *

They return, as they always do, and the kaleidoscope of a man is nowhere to be seen.

The innkeeper glances over his dice and continues runs a cloth over a glass, watching as the group moves to sit around an empty table, and the blue-robed woman approaches him.

“Five of your strongest,” she says, her voice gravelly and harsh. She rummages in her robes for a moment and dumps a handful of silver on the counter.

He sets six glasses on a tray and pours the drinks in silence before pushing her coin back towards her.

"He already paid more than enough," he tells her, and she meets his eyes. She holds his gaze for a long moment, opens her mouth to speak. Instead, she shoves the coins into her pockets and takes the tray. She returns to her table, head bowed, and shoulders hunched.

The innkeeper watches them, fingers his dice for a moment, but there is no rest for the wicked, for there is a loud _bang!_ As the door slams open and a young redheaded woman bursts inside. She's arguing with the man in slate armour that follows her, though she's grinning ear to ear.

_Tnk. Tnk._

The dice clatter against the wood.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the redhead and slate-armoured man are Nimona and Ballister Blackheart from Nimona.
> 
> Check me out on tumblr and twitter, I cry about the de Rolos on a daily basis.
> 
> http://kellyinawheeliebin.tumblr.com  
> https://twitter.com/kellswheeliebin


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